This, it soon appeared, was news to Mr Wallace-Sims’s parents, Howard and Anne, who wrote to the Editor to say: “This isn’t the story he told his parents in 1994, and, headmaster or not, he is a very naughty boy.”

Soon a stream of similar stories began to flood across the Letters desk like seas across the deck of a battle-cruiser in a moderate swell.

Julian Walters remembered being punished at the age of four for shredding the leather backs of two antique chairs. It wasn’t until his mother’s recent 80th birthday that his elder sister came clean and confessed that she had been the criminal all those decades before. “The odd thing,” Mr Waters commented, “is that for half a century I was convinced that I was the vandal.”

Some youngsters succeeded in hiding misdemeanours permanently – until they confessed in our pages. “I missed my Geography A-level to appear as an extra in the film Tommy,” wrote Richard Allen.

Reader Richard Allen skipped his Geography A-Level to appear in the film TommyCredit:
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Guilt entered into most of these secrets, but not always on the part of the children. “Having interrogated and berated my son for misappropriating a portion of Christmas fudge when he was 10 years old,” wrote Paul Cheater, “it subsequently transpired that it was his late maternal grandmother who had been responsible for its disappearance.” He added: “I am sorry he has had to wait for more than 15 years for a proper apology, although, DV, I may not be able to speak with the culprit for a while.”

One thread in family secrets is the white lie meant to shield childish innocence. Lambs sent to slaughter had “gone to the Welsh hills”. Even a dog sent to be neutered was “having his tonsils out”.

The cover stories didn’t always succeed. Kate Graeme-Cook was told at the age of four that the beloved family cat had “gone on holiday”. But from her bedroom window she saw her parents bury the cat outside the kitchen. She kept what she had seen a secret in her heart for decades. The interesting thing about her confessing, just a few years ago, to knowing the cat’s fate all along is that her mother did not believe her “until I described the exact location of the grave”.

Our teacher warned us that, if we sat on the hot water points in our classroom, our bones would melt. I still feel mildly apprehensive when near a radiator.Caroline Rofer

Even the most absurd old wives’ warnings can leave a mark for life. “Our classroom was heated by low-positioned hot water pipes,” Caroline Rofer wrote in to say. “Our teacher warned us that, if we sat on them, our bones would melt.” Preposterous! But she added: “I still feel mildly apprehensive when near a radiator.”

Letty Sykes wrote to say that her children never did believe their parents’ assurances that sheep had two legs long and two short to help them stand on hillsides.

In other cases implicit beliefs persisted into adulthood. A teddy sent to the local dolls’ hospital came back good as new. But Christine Fairwood, its child-owner, only discovered in her forties from her mother that the stuffed toy had in fact been replaced with a new one. “I was mortified,” she wrote, “as he had been so special to me as a child. I still have the replacement teddy, but have never felt the same towards him since that day.”

Christine Fairwood was mortified to discover her teddy bear "sent to dolls hospital" was replaced by a new oneCredit:
HENRIK SCHMIDT/EPA

So sometimes children know and keep quiet, and sometimes they stifle any suspicions for many years. The most circumstantial account of a childhood moral crisis came from Duncan Clark. When he was 11, his father gave him an air rifle. At the same time his father bought himself “a rather beautiful bird table made of steel and copper in an oriental style.” You can see what might be coming.

“It proved an irresistible target and I shot at it from my bedroom window, once. On being confronted by the irrefutable evidence, I went into blanket denial and to my astonishment the matter was dropped.”

Duncan Clark's account of childhood moral crisis is as good as a Chekhov short story

So it was left, unexamined, “until my father lay dying 39 years later. We were sitting together contemplating the damaged bird table still in its place with the tell-tale bullet hole pointing towards my bedroom when my father suddenly said: 'You know by not beating you when you shot my bird table, I probably turned you into an inveterate liar.'

“The subsequent silence was much worse than any beating. My father was, however, good enough to smile at me, and died the following day. I dare say he was right but the lesson did come a bit late.”

But that was not quite the end of the tale, which is as good as a Chekhov short story.

“He was a wise old bird,” Mr Clark concluded, “no doubt taking comfort in the thought that his table, which remains in situ, would act as a constant rebuke for countless evaded truths.”